<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Silence Between by Johns_Farthings</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674213">The Silence Between</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings'>Johns_Farthings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Miscommunication, Sharing Body Heat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:02:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674213</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>‘That’s your clock. See that it doesn’t run out.’</p><p>Little is forced to make a second, freezing walk Erebus. Jopson worries.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Terror Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Terror Bingo fill: That's your clock.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Now you go back to Mr Collins, and you tell him – from James’s personal stores.’</p><p>Jopson lingers outside the cabin, tilting his head to catch the words.</p><p>‘Sir…’ Little’s voice is hoarse. ‘I already-’</p><p>‘I said, go! That's an order.’</p><p>A pause. Then-</p><p>‘Yes, sir.’</p><p>Boards creak. Jopson busies himself with one of the lamps, pretending to adjust it as the door opens, but he feels Little’s eyes upon him as he passes. From the cabin, nothing – only the shuffle of footsteps and a long, long sigh.</p><p>Jopson should see to Mr Hornby’s personal effects, or else follow his orders to fetch up the bottles of whisky from the supply that has finally run to nothing, but he does neither of these things. Instead, he treads carefully through the ship, eerily quiet now that most of the crew are berthed on <em>Erebus</em>, and knocks four times upon Edward Little’s door. <em>Tap-tap, tap-tap</em>. Their signal.</p><p>‘Come in.’</p><p>Little’s voice is barely a whisper. Jopson opens the door and steps into the cramped space.</p><p>‘You heard,’ Little says. It is not a question.</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>Little shakes out his slops, sending half-melted ice spattering onto the boards. ‘Are there really only two bottles left?’</p><p>Jopson nods. He wishes that he could give some other answer.</p><p>‘Damn.’ A piece of ice thaws on Little's cuff, turning reluctantly from white to blue as he sets the slops down on his chair. ‘I’ve been ordered back to <em>Erebus</em>.’</p><p>'What will you tell Mr Collins?’</p><p>‘Whatever excuse I give him, he won’t believe it.’ Little sighs. ‘Let Fitzjames come. The Captain might listen to him.’</p><p>Jopson doubts it. The two hardly have a harmonious relationship.</p><p>‘Perhaps…’ He touches Little’s hand, then draws back sharply. ‘Gods, you’re freezing.’</p><p>Little’s lip twitches. ‘It is rather cold out there.’</p><p>As if to emphasise his words, the wind mounts a fresh attempt to pummel through the hull of the ship, making the boards whimper.</p><p>‘You can’t make another trip to <em>Erebus</em>.’ Jopson presses Little’s hands between his own and blows on them, letting his breath whistle between his teeth in an attempt to eke some warmth into his fingers. 'It's too much.'</p><p>‘I have my instructions.’</p><p>‘Send someone else.’</p><p>'The Captain ordered me - you know that he will not trust this to anyone else. And it is not too far.’</p><p>‘Mr Hornby is dead because of that not too far.’ It is not his duty to question orders, but he cannot help but question this. ‘What about the beast?’</p><p>‘We’ve had no sign of it for days. I shall take Tozer with me – he’s a fine shot.’</p><p>He makes to step back, but Jopson holds on, gripping Little's hands so that he can feel the hard ridges of his knuckles, the roughage of chapped skin on the folds between his fingers. As if he can somehow keep Little safe between his palms, even as his throat clenches. They both know that Tozer being a fine shot will not stop the bear, should it come. </p><p><em>I’ll not put your things in store, </em>Jopson wants to snarl. <em>Not even for the Captain. I will not do it. </em></p><p>‘Be careful,’ he says instead. The words are flat, hopeless against the promise of what waits beyond the ship. </p><p>Little nods. ‘I will.’</p><p>Slowly, Jopson releases Little’s hands. Little picks up his damp slops and begins to pull them on, sending flakes of ice dancing over the floor. Jopson lingers for a moment, the sting of Little's cold hands still whispering between his palms, before he squares his shoulders and goes to see to Mr Hornby’s things. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Despite having re-watched Episode 5 an embarrassing number of times, I still can’t work out if Little actually obeys Crozier’s order to go back to Mr Collins. For this story, I've decided that he does.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Little clings to the thought of Jopson’s hands against his own, even as his fingers turn numb in the whistling storm. It is below forty, snow blowing at a cruel angle against his cheeks, and his already-damp slops do nothing to keep out the cold. He lost the feeling in his nose some time ago, and his lips are heavy and useless. Not that he has anything to say – Tozer had not been happy about making a journey across the ice in the bad conditions, and he is silent as he puffs ahead. Little struggles to keep up. No matter what he had told Jopson, the first trip to and from <em>Erebus </em>had taken his last reserves, and he is exhausted. His feet are leaden and sliding in his boots, and even though he keeps his mouth firmly shut, his teeth ache with an exquisite, throbbing pain. His eyelashes are now so thick with ice that he can barely see, despite the lantern clutched in his left mitten, and he has fallen into the inevitable rhythm of forcing one foot in front of the other, head bowed, no longer fully aware of what is around him. </p><p>He should not be so careless – even if there has been no sign of the bear, he knows it is out there. He had promised Jopson that he would come back safe.</p><p>He steels himself and scrubs a hand across his eyes, wincing as the ice splinters and tears away skin, forces himself to look around. It is useless. The lantern threatens extinguishment with every step, and its wavering light reaches only a few feet. The land is full of shapes, fissures and ridges and hulking shadows - all of them look like bears, and none. If they make it to <em>Erebus</em>, it will not be because Little is keeping a sharp watch. Luck is what keeps them alive in this hellish place, and bit by bit, man by man, it runs out. Unlike his orders, unlike Mr Hornby, the ice has no clock. It is patient.   </p><p>Tozer is pulling ahead. Little quickens his pace, though every inhale hurts and even the memory of Jopson’s warm hands is long-gone. He’s bruised and brittle with shivering, and he still has no idea what he will tell Mr Collins. Between the storm and the nagging ache in his skull, he cannot bring himself to care.</p><p><em>Erebus</em>’s lights come into sight, a series of orange pinpricks battling against the grey sleet. He hopes that the lantern is enough to warn the watch – any cry will not be heard above the wind, and he has no wish to be shot today. But the men on duty area steady and, after a brief exchange on the swirling deck, Little goes below. The wind drops, but the cold is in his bones now, and the shelter brings no relief. His waxy fingers slip as he clambers down to the orlop and the small bones in his feet sting in protest when his feet meet the deck with a thud. He sways, steadies himself against a barrel. This is no good. He crushes the mittens into his pocket and shakes himself, beating his hands against his arms. The blows are dull, as if they are being inflicted on someone else. He is worryingly chilled. He must pace here for a time, out of the storm, until he feels a bit more-</p><p>Someone moves in the shadows.</p><p>‘Mr Collins.’ Little drops his arms and steps forward, struggling to speak through his shaking jaw. ‘Captain Crozier has asked that I-’</p><p>‘Return for my whisky?’</p><p>Little chokes.</p><p>‘Save your breath, Lieutenant.’ Captain Fitzjames strides towards him. ‘I shall accompany you back to <em>Terror</em>. It is high time that Captain Crozier and I spoke face-to-face.’</p><p>Little stands, dripping meltwater. Despite Fitzjames’s grim expression, despite the fact that what they have all feared has at last come to pass, for better or for worse, he can only think that he does not want to go into the cold again. </p><p>‘Now, sir?’</p><p>‘Immediately, Lieutenant. This conversation is long overdue.’</p><p>Little can do nothing but mumble a ‘yes, sir,’ as the wind knocks gleefully on <em>Erebus</em>’s hull, waiting for him to step outside and greet it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Captain’s conversation with Lady Silence is not going well – Jopson does not understand what is being said, but he can tell from the look on her face that it is not good – and he is relieved to hear footsteps approaching the cabin, until he turns and sees Captain Fitzjames in the doorway, Little standing sheepishly behind him.</p><p>‘Oh, God.’ Crozier rolls in his chair to face them. ‘Get off my ship!’</p><p>Captain Fitzjames ignores him, shedding snow as he steps further into the room. ‘What in God’s name is happening here?’</p><p>Despite the quarrel unfolding around him, Jopson looks for Little. He stands stiffly at the edge of the room, water dripping from his slops and puddling on the cabin floor. He is trying to supress his shivering, jaw clenched, but Jopson sees it – can see, too, that Little is swaying subtly where he stands. His skin has been rubbed raw by the cold, but he is pale underneath it. He edges towards him, but then the Captain’s knuckles meet Fitzjames’s face, sending him stumbling backwards, and the room dissolves into chaos. Jopson reaches instinctively to pull Fitzjames out of harm’s way, even as Blanky gets an arm across the Captain’s chest and drags him to the opposite side of the cabin. Little takes hold of the Captain’s other arm, but he’s unnaturally slow, the Captain sends him stumbling backwards into one of the shelves with a clatter. Books spill onto the floor. There is a great deal of shouting, during which Jopson does not dare move from Fitzjames, and then Blanky storms past them as he is ordered onto the deck.</p><p>A long, ugly silence, broken only by harsh breathing.</p><p>‘Get out,’ the Captain snarls. ‘Everyone out!’</p><p>Goodsir almost trips in his haste to reach the door, ushering Lady Silence before him. Jopson hesitates, waiting for Little to go ahead – if he can get him alone for a moment, he can steer him towards the heat of Mr Diggle’s stove – but then Fitzjames holds up a hand.</p><p>‘Lieutenant. Stay here.’</p><p>Little, halfway across the room, stumbles to a halt, and Jopson is forced to walk past him. He dares to turn his head and attempt to catch Little’s eye, but Little is looking at Fitzjames, and he gives no indication that he has seen.</p><p>Though he knows he should not, Jopson loiters in the passage, listening as the argument inside pours forth like floodwater. The whisky, the ice, the position of the ships - the words seep into the corridor, sticky and inescapable, and Jopson’s heart sinks until he feels the ache of it down to his belly. This is worse than he had imagined, and he cannot see any solution to what they now face. The whisky is gone, and there is nothing he, or anyone else, can do about it.</p><p>Then, it begins.</p><p>Uproar, screaming. Something crashes onto the hatch with a boom that shakes Jopson’s teeth in his skull, forcing McDonald down the steps with a curse. The captains burst from the cabin, shouting. Jopson runs for the Captain’s coat, knowing that Crozier will go up onto the deck no matter what has occurred this evening, and as he enters the cabin he sees the bear pull itself over the stern, effortless as a cat; a white, prowling shape against the storm. He shouts a warning. The forward hatch is a tangle of limbs and harsh breathing as roars and gunfire echo above them. Little is passing guns up from below, hands shaking. He drops one, and Tozer has to lunge to catch it - something is wrong, but Jopson has no time to think as the forward hatch bursts open.</p><p>‘Stay here,’ the Captain says as Jopson presses his coat at him, and so Jopson must stay. Little storms past him with the others, onto the howling deck.</p><p>The next minutes – he knows they are only minutes, though it feels like hours – are an agony of waiting. Crashes and snarls roll down from the open hatch, until the sound of the cannon thrums, strangely deadened, through the ship. More shouting, then...nothing. Jopson leans against the ladder, breathing hard despite the fact he has not moved. Above decks, there is only an unnatural quiet.</p><p>His mouth is dry. He cannot stay here, not when-</p><p>He has one foot on the steps when there is a flurry of feet and someone calls for him to make way. Thick, half-frozen blood patters onto the floor, and a body is lowered down. Jopson's breath tangles in his throat as he reaches up to help, then releases in an stinging rush when he realises that it is not his Captain, not his Edward. The guilty relief lends him strength as he helps carry Blanky towards the sick bay in a rush of shouted instructions. Even in the commotion, he is aware of Little only a small way behind him, safe, thank God safe. </p><p>‘Can we have some light please!’ McDonald shouts. Someone peels from the group, and Jopson glances up to see Little stumbling back to them, grasping a lantern. He is clumsy and it slips on the hook. Hodgson reaches out to steady it. Jopson tries to say something, but Blanky is snarling and he loses track of things again, until a shot of whisky is pressed into his hands and he has a moment to breathe, a single, eager moment, and his eyes find Little just in time to see Little’s cup slip from his grasp, spilling golden whisky as his legs fold.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is too much.</p><p>Captain Fitzjames is fresh, burning with anger, and he makes the walk across the ice with swift determination. Little and Tozer, given no time to warm themselves, follow behind, panting. Little's wet things provide no protection, and the cold sets deep into his bones, making his joints feel as if they are about to snap. His hands grow wooden inside his mittens, and the wind takes particular delight in scalding the exposed skin around his eyes until it hurts even to keep them open. His vision blurs. There is a terrible beauty, suddenly, to the ice around him, an invitation that threatens to reach up sharp hands and pull him under…</p><p>‘Lieutenant!’ Captain Fitzjames shouts, his voice carrying back on the screaming wind. ‘Keep up!’</p><p>Little blinks, sending tiny icicles stinging down his cheeks, and hurries to catch up with Tozer. He is still dazed when they reach the ship, following Fitzjames numbly to the cabin and positioning himself in a corner where he can shiver in earnest. He takes in nothing, every inch of energy put towards holding himself upright, clenching and unclenching his fingers to force agonising warmth into them. Even when blows are exchanged, his body is slow and disobedient – if it weren’t for Blanky, he would not have been able to hold the Captain at all.</p><p>Then comes the crashing and shouting from above. A deep-buried instinct flickers to life like a match inside Little, sending him stumbling to the guns and at last onto the deck, back into the whistling force of the storm. Ice smashes from the masts as the creature roars above them, but the snow is too thick, and they are blind and helpless far below. Little grips his rifle, but he could not fire it even if he something to aim at – he can no longer feel his fingers, let alone do something as delicate as pull a trigger. </p><p>A light flares in the rigging. Hodgson shouts, and a cannon-blast judders through the air. Something heavy crashes over the side of the ship and Little staggers to the gunwale, down to the place where the beast must be, hoping that it is dead, because even if he could fire his gun, he knows that a single shot will not bring it down…</p><p>He finds nothing but blood, black upon the snow. Little blinks, eyelids heavy. The blood seems to whisper, twisting on the ice, and for a moment he is not sure where he is – whether standing by <em>Terror</em>, or walking to <em>Erebus</em>, or if the whole thing is a nightmare and he is in fact back in England, and a child afraid in his bed. It is strange, but he is starting to feel almost warm. The shivering has eased, and his heart beats a slow lullaby between his ribs. </p><p>‘Lieutenant,’ someone shouts, and then he is pulled onto the deck, waiting in a haze as they cut Blanky down and stumble to the sickbay with him. Dreamlike, he fetches a lantern, only to find that the hook he must hang it upon will not stay still, but wavers and jumps in front of his eyes like a dancer. Someone takes it from him. He is not sure if he thanks them - he is so tired, and the world is turning translucent around him, pale and soft and-</p><p>A clatter. He has dropped something, a cup – it must have been him, for it is at his feet, but he does not remember it being put into his hands. He cannot feel his fingers, or his arms, and then the light shudders and</p><p>he is moving. There is noise and shouting, a familiar voice that he tries to grasp and keep close but</p><p>he is encased in ice below the ship, where the wind can no longer reach. It is dark, and the slow lullaby of his heartbeat falters against the pack, a grinding, dreadful run of time between his stinging fingers, until</p><p>someone speaks, low and desperate, but he cannot understand them. There is something important, something he should have said, but his words jumble with the ticking clock, with the coffin of patient ice that will take them both, sink them beneath the pack and roll their bones quietly across the ocean floor.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Get the Lieutenant of here,’ McDonald says, his saw already poised above Blanky’s ruined leg. ‘Someone else hold Mr Blanky down.’</p><p>Hodgson runs forward as Jopson pulls Little away from the table. The saw bites and Blanky screams.</p><p>‘Edward,’ Jopson says, not caring that he might be overheard, ‘can you hear me?’</p><p>Little cannot support himself, legs going out from under him as Jopson drags him to a corner of the sickbay and sets him down. His hands are freezing, far, far too cold, and he is limp, no longer shivering. Every stitch of his clothing is wet, and Jopson should have seen, should have realised…</p><p>No time for that. Little’s skin is waxen, but not yet black, and his eyes are still half-open. They must move quickly. </p><p>Jopson pulls Little’s wet slops over his head, snatches for his hat and wig and throws the lot aside. Blanky is still screaming behind them, the saw grinding bone, but Jopson shuts it out, shedding melting ice as he tugs Little’s boots. The stockings underneath are half-frozen, and they tear skin when Jopson wrenches them away. Little moans, a quaver at the back of his throat. </p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ Jopson murmurs. ‘Just a little more, just a little longer…’</p><p>‘Mr Jopson!’</p><p>He jumps as Doctor Goodsir comes to a halt next to them, breathing hard.</p><p>‘Lieutenant Hodgson said that you may need help,’ Goodsir says, putting a hand to Little's forehead and wincing. ‘Is the he injured?’</p><p>Jopson shakes his head. ‘Cold.’</p><p>Goodsir makes a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘We must warm him as quickly and gently as possible. I will fetch blankets – continue to get him out of his wet things. They are no good to him now.’          </p><p>Jopson makes a noise of assent without looking up, peels Little’s gloves from his stiffened fingers and tosses them into the pile with the rest. He is vaguely aware that Blanky has stopped screaming, and he does not know if that is good or bad - there is no time to turn around and see. Instead, he fumbles for Little’s damp shirt, unusually clumsy as his heart knocks against his ribs. Even the buttons are cold, stinging against his fingertips. </p><p>‘Listen to me.’ He keeps his voice level, though his mouth is so dry that he might choke on his own tongue. ‘We will have you warm and dry very soon, but you must not go to sleep. You promised, remember? You-'</p><p>Footsteps. Jopson clamps his mouth shut as Goodsir sets down a pile of mercifully dry blankets with a thud, then leans over Little and touches his face, peeling back his eyelid to show the white.</p><p>‘He is barely conscious,’ Goodsir murmurs. ‘We cannot risk making him drink something. He might choke.’ He looks at Jopson. ‘The fastest way to warm him is for someone to stay close to him.’</p><p>Jopson has spent enough time in cold places to know this, and he nods sharply. ‘I’ll do it.’</p><p>‘I shall finish this.’ Goodsir crouches, reaching for Little’s shirt buttons. ‘Hurry now.’</p><p>Jopson is already on his feet, removing his coat and boots, toeing off his stockings even as he undoes the buttons of his shirt – so many pieces of clothing, but he is used to buttons and buckles, cuffs and sleeves, and he does not care that he looks a fool, dancing about on the spot in his haste as Goodsir divests Little of the last of his clothes and uses one of the blankets to dry his skin and hair. Little’s head lolls in Goodsir’s hands – his eyes are closed now, and Jopson’s breath squeezes, even as he tugs his shirt over his head and stands shivering in just his underthings.</p><p>Goodsir unfolds a fresh blanket on the floor and rolls Little onto it, then gestures at Jopson. ‘Put yourself against his back.’</p><p>Jopson does, laying on the blanket and pressing his chest to Little’s spine in a manner that he has more than once before, only this time Little’s skin is so cold that it makes him gasp. He bites his lip – he must not flinch away, not now – then wraps his arms tightly around Little’s front and jams their legs together, fitting into the familiar shape as he tries to expand himself to cover every inch of icy skin, as if he can swallow Little up and keep him warm.</p><p>‘Take his hands,’ Goodsir says. ‘We do not want him to lose fingers, if it can possibly be avoided.’</p><p>Jopson cannot find Little’s hands, and Goodsir has to lift them and put them into his own. Then, he laces their fingers and pulls his hands towards Little’s stomach, gripping as much as he dares and letting his breath brush Little’s neck, hoping it will be enough, it must be enough…</p><p>‘I will be back in a moment,’ Goodsir says. ‘I am sure that this is rather strange, but please stay where you are.’</p><p>Jopson nods, keeping his expression blank, as if he has never touched Little’s hands before, as if he does not know Little’s back, from the knobs of his spine to the splash of freckles across his shoulders, unevenly spaced and the colour of a new egg.</p><p>Goodsir throws a blanket over them, plunging them into sudden darkness as his footsteps fade. Their breath quickly fills the tiny space - other sounds are muffled, distant. Jopson sets his chin against Little’s shoulder and chafes his hands between his own, murmuring under his breath. Little’s fingers are heavy and unresponsive, but as the blanket slowly heats around them, he starts to shiver.</p><p>Relief washes through Jopson like strong wine. ‘That’s it,’ he mutters. ‘Come back to me.’</p><p>Little's ribs expand against his own as he shakes. People move around them, voices passing and slipping in the cold air beyond the blanket, but it does not matter. No-one can see them, and Jopson presses his forehead to Little's back, breathing the smell of wool and damp skin. </p><p>Little mumbles, the words running through his chattering teeth like ink spilled on paper.</p><p>‘Hm?’ Jopson can hardly get any closer, but he tilts his head. ‘Say that again.’</p><p>‘S’the ice.’ Little shifts. 'Everywhere.'</p><p>Jopson squeezes his hands more tightly. 'Not in here - you're safe.' A lie, perhaps, but he cannot bear to tell Little the truth, not now. 'We're safe.'</p><p>A pause. Then-</p><p>‘Can’t...' Little shakes his head, hair scratching the blanket. 'Can't keep you safe.’</p><p>'I can look after myself. Don't you worry about that now.'</p><p>'Can't help it. Loving you...makes it worse.' </p><p>Jopson’s breath catches in his throat. </p><p>‘Won’t save us.’ Little sighs as the strength goes out of him like water. ‘Can’t help it.’</p><p>Jopson opens his mouth, but before he can find the words the blanket above them is pulled back, letting in a rush of cold air. He blinks in the sudden light.</p><p>‘My apologies,’ Goodsir says, ‘but this treatment is more effective with two, and I must be on hand in case Doctor McDonald and Doctor Peddie require help. Mr Gibson has not been above decks, so he is warmer than some of the others.’</p><p>Gibson, wearing nothing but his underclothes, slides awkwardly onto the blanket and shuffles into place with his back to Little’s chest, forcing Jopson to unclasp their hands.</p><p>‘I will not be far,’ Goodsir says. ‘Call for me if he changes, or if you begin to grow too cold.’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘The worst is over with Mr Blanky, I think.’</p><p>He drops the blanket again, returning them to darkness. Jopson bites his lip, willing Little not to say anything that Gibson might think odd, but Little seems to have exhausted himself, and he keeps silent. Gibson does not speak either, which Jopson is grateful for – his thoughts are blowing around his head like the storm above them, and he would not know how to answer.</p><p>
  <em>Loving you…makes it worse.</em>
</p><p>Little has never said anything of the kind before. Every time Jopson thought he might – that one of them might – there is only a silence between the words, a hush that is, by some unspoken agreement, never broken. Their situation is so dire, and growing worse each day, that it seems to suffocate the life out of any words as fragile as…as…</p><p>Jopson inhales sharply. He cannot ask Little what he means, not with Gibson so close. There is nothing he can do but wait. </p><p>The rustle of breathing fills the cramped space, and Jopson begins to drift, despite his churning thoughts and the sting of Little’s skin, which is making him uncomfortably chilled around his stomach and chest as it leeches his natural heat. He is not sure he has ever been so close to Little for so long – there has always been some duty calling, some danger that they will be discovered if they linger. It is oddly stupefying, to be here with permission in the darkness, with the steady sound of three pairs of lungs slowly falling into rhythm. Perhaps this is what it is like to wait to be born - as a child, Jopson had pressed a hand to his mother’s belly to feel his brother move beneath her skin, and wondered.</p><p>His thoughts have descended into an uneasy fuzz when the blanket pulls back sharply. Jopson gasps, and fresh air races into his lungs like snow.</p><p>‘-or you will grow too cold,’ Goodsir is saying, taking hold of Jopson’s arm and pulling him away from Little, up onto his feet before he can protest. A blanket is thrown around him, a cup of something pushed into his hands, so hot it makes them ache. His thoughts are still hazy, but he knows what is happening, and he wants to beg them to let him stay, because Little is still cold and shaking and Jopson does not want to leave him – but one of the others is already taking his place at Little's back, and he is steered, shivering, past the cots, past McDonald cleaning the blood from his glittering instruments, and finally to Mr Diggle’s stove, where he is placed on a stool far from Little’s reach.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘I am going to be unwell, gentlemen.’</p><p>It is an odd gathering in the cabin, and Little knows that he looks the strangest of all of them. Under doctor’s orders, he has a blanket around his shoulders and another over his knees, and he is wearing an ill-fitting mix of his own spare clothes and pieces donated from others. He feels rather foolish, and his bladder is uncomfortably full from the number of hot drinks he has been forced to consume. Every inch of him aches from shivering, bruised as if he has been dropped from a great height. </p><p>‘Quite unwell, I expect.’ The Captain’s eyes go to McDonald, who still has a dark line of Blanky’s blood under his fingernails. ‘And I don’t know for how long.’</p><p>Little frowns. Though his teeth stopped chattering some time ago, his head is still pounding, and his thoughts are sluggish.</p><p>‘And not only must you draw the tightest possible curtain around what is happening, but you must also care for me.’ The Captain inhales sharply. ‘As I will not be able to care for myself.’</p><p>There is an awful pause as Fitzjames exchanges a look with McDonald. They have not discussed the events of the past few hours, but the consequences are written in Little’s windburned face, in the blood on Doctor McDonald’s sleeves. The Captain's expression is twisted, almost tearful, and Little is not certain what to say, if anything can be said – if he should keep silent, or speak, or-</p><p>Jopson straightens in his seat, setting his chin in his sharp, determined way that makes Little want to groan in relief. There is a vein of steel running through Thomas Jopson, a reassuring obstinacy that draws Little like a flame upon the ice and makes him feel safe.</p><p>‘You needn’t worry for a thing, sir,’ Jopson says.</p><p>The tension in the room does not break, exactly, but Little remembers to breathe.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It is an agonising wait before they can meet alone. Captain Fitzjames does not leave <em>Terror </em>for some time, and after that they must wait for the rest of the ship to sleep, as much as a ship ever does. It is a risk even then – Little would not put it past any of the doctors to check on him in the night, despite his reassurances that he can feel each of his fingers and toes, and that, though his head hurts and his tongue is sore where he has bitten it, he is mostly recovered. He does not remember much of what happened after <em>Erebus </em>– shouts and roaring, blood on the ice and the sense of time trickling through him like sand, until he had come to himself in the sickbay, pressed awkwardly between two bodies and with Jopson nowhere to be seen, though he was certain he had heard him, not long before.</p><p>‘He was here,’ Goodsir said as he measured Little’s pulse and checked his temperature with the back of his hand to his forehead, ‘and very efficient when you were first taken ill. I think he has gone about his duties, now.’   </p><p>Little had watched Goodsir's face carefully, searching for any sign that he might hold suspicions, but there was nothing. Whatever had happened, Jopson had been careful, and Little must do the same by not doing something so obvious as seeking him out. Even after the Captain had finished with them, Jopson had slipped away, putting himself quietly out of Little's sight.</p><p>Now, Little sits in his cabin, waiting. By morning, he will be busy with his duties, and Jopson will be occupied with the Captain. It may be some time before they can speak again, but it is late, and Jopson has not come. Perhaps he cannot find a discreet way through the ship, or thinks the risk is too great to try. Perhaps-</p><p>Four knocks on the doorframe. <em>Tap-tap tap-tap</em>.</p><p>Little stumbles to his feet. ‘Come in.’</p><p>Jopson enters quickly, turning and closing the door firmly behind him. His breath echoes - he must have hurried to get here, though his clothing, as always, is neat and unrumpled. His face is pale in the light of the single candle, though his journey through the ship has left two spots of colour on his cheeks.</p><p>‘You promised that you would be careful,’ he says. </p><p>Little's face heats, as if he is nothing more than a schoolboy caught breaking rules. He scrambles for something to say, some sort of apology, but the words trip over each other, and there is an awful moment where he thinks that Jopson will simply open the door and leave.</p><p>Then, Jopson holds up a hand.</p><p>‘Sorry,’ he murmurs. His shoulders slump. ‘I did not mean to come in here and…that is not what I meant to say.' He sighs. 'It has been a long day.'</p><p>Little swallows. ‘I did not intend - that is, I did not want to worry you.’</p><p>‘It was not your fault.’ Jopson peels from the door and sits heavily on the bed. Boards creak. ‘I wish that those orders had not been given, but…the Captain will make it right, now, I think.’</p><p>They lapse into silence. Little is painfully aware that they only have a few hours grace. The next two weeks will be difficult for all of them, and his heart is heavy with the thought of the duties he must now take on, that he neither wants nor has the aptitude for, and which he is reminded of every time he catches a glimpse of the Captain’s pistol, abandoned by his washbasin because he does not know what else to do with it.</p><p>Jopson’s eyes follow his to the pistol, and he huffs, pats the bed. ‘Sit.’</p><p>Little does as he is told. He leaves a healthy inch of space between them, just in case, but Jopson closes it immediately, turning to lift both his legs onto the bed and putting his hand on Little’s knee. So near, Little can see the indents on Jopson's lower lip where his teeth have pinched the skin and worried it.  </p><p>He clears his throat. ‘Doctor Goodsir told me what happened – what you had to do. I hope I did not say anything that will make our position...difficult. Did I?’</p><p>‘You don’t remember?’</p><p>‘Only being cold.’ His fingers ache at the memory. ‘And confused.’</p><p>'Confused?'</p><p>Little nods. 'As if someone had taken all my thoughts and...and pulled the threads of them apart. As if they were not my thoughts at all.'</p><p>Jopson hesitates. Little’s heart stutters, though he knows that he would not have done anything so foolish to come here if they truly had been found out.</p><p>Jopson shakes his head. ‘No. Nobody heard you speak except me.’</p><p>‘Thank God.’ Little lets out a breath. 'I suppose it was nonsense anyway.' </p><p>Jopson’s hand tightens on his knee, pinching. ‘You really don’t remember?’</p><p>Little frowns, trying to recall something of the time before he had come to himself, swaddled in blankets with one of the marines lending warmth to his back, a strange, vulnerable position that makes his ears sting to think of it. There had been cold, and dark, and pain over his skin like needles. Voices, even Jopson’s, but distant, blurred. Something to do with the ice, too, though he is not sure what.</p><p>‘No. Is that…is something wrong?’</p><p>‘Of course not.’ Jopson smiles. It stretches the marks on his lips and does not quite reach his eyes. ‘It is only to be expected. You needn’t worry – you did not say anything that made sense.’</p><p>‘Ah.’ He attempts a laugh, though it falls flat in the tiny space. ‘No different to usual, then.’</p><p>Jopson snorts, but there is a flicker in his eyes that Little cannot quite grasp,</p><p>He swallows. 'I wanted...that is - thank you. For helping.'</p><p>'You don't need to thank me. I am only glad that you are better now - and that it was not worse.' Jopson leans forward and straightens Little's collar. 'Now, you must look after yourself as best you can - we will have much to do these next two weeks, and I'll not have you ill again.' </p><p>There is a shuddering note in his voice, unnaturally sombre, but before Little can speak Jopson swings his legs over the bed, straightening with all the efficiency of a sailor called to take orders.</p><p>‘Which means, I should go.’  </p><p>Little tries to protest, but Jopson is already pressing a kiss to his lips, not seeming to mind that they are cracked and scabbed from the cold. He puts a hand on Little’s shoulder as he does so, gripping tightly – too tightly, for such a kiss, even after all that has happened. Something is not right, but Little is still tired and aching, and Jopson's lips are warm against his own, so that he cannot grasp what it is...</p><p>Jopson pulls back too quickly, leaving him dazed.</p><p>‘There,’ he says, voice tight. ‘That must keep us for a time.’</p><p><em>Please don't go,</em> Little wants to say through his stinging lips, <em>please stay</em>. <em>Please explain.</em> But he does not, because Jopson is practical, above all else, and such things are not practical. Little must keep his soft words hidden, silent beneath his tongue. He could not bear to lose what he has by saying them aloud. </p><p>‘Goodnight,’ he says instead. </p><p>'Goodnight.' Jopson releases his shoulder. ‘Get some sleep.’</p><p>For a moment, he thinks that Jopson will say something else, but he only turns towards the door and slips out, into the quiet night. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The end - I had fun, even if our two boys did not. Thanks for sticking with me for this self-indulgent story!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>